Thursday, June 23

I sighed heavily and gazed around Masquerade, an intimately lit London nightclub where everyone wore black domino masks, some elaborate and some plain, to hide their identity. A few die-hards even sported dark clothing with long, loose cloaks. Not me though. I’d gone modern with a slinky little number and three-inch heels, putting my height at nearly six feet. Yep, I’m the giant in the blue dress, towering over every girl and some guys at the bar.

My top teeth dug into my bottom lip as I gazed around the smoky club, my eyes bouncing off random faces. Even in a room full of party people, music, and strobe lights, I was lonely.

My groom was missing.

That’s right. Hartford Wilcox, Jr., aka Mr. Nice Guy at Whitman University in North Carolina, had jilted me two weeks before the big wedding day as we had dinner at our favorite Italian restaurant, Mario’s.

And now here I was—on my honeymoon and getting trashed with my best friend Lulu who’d decided to skip her beach vacation and come with me at the last minute.

She poked me with her finger as we sat in front of the heavy wooden bar of the club. “Hey, Earth to Remi, get that glazed look out of your eyes and order a drink already. I’m thirsty.” She fluffed her pixie-cut pink hair and straightened her black tutu, eyes scoping out the club. “Dang, the men in here are hotter than a billy goat with a blow torch,” she said in her honeyed southern drawl.

I half-heartedly agreed, not really caring, more intent on scanning the bottles behind the bar. “I want tequila,” I murmured. “A whole bottle.”

Her face snapped back to me and her green eyes widened. “Uh-uh. No way. I know what happens when you drink that crap. You either eat a ton of tacos and puke, or you wrap yourself around some cocky bastard with a well-developed tush.”

True. I did love a tight muscular ass.

But I wouldn’t get one tonight.

A short laugh burst out of me, one of those I’m-miserable-but-pretending-to- be-okay-laughs that I’d been doing a lot of lately. For the past two weeks, I’d vacillated between a sobbing mess and an angry woman who became so incensed that “fuck” was the only word that seemed appropriate in any given situation. Going to the post office to mail he dumped me, but thank you anyway cards. Fuck. Going to the wedding venue and not getting the ten thousand dollar deposit back. Fuck. Realizing I was homeless fall semester—which was in two weeks—fuck. Listening to my mother tell me it was my fault. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

The bartender delivered my bottle and poured me a shot. I sucked the tequila down while Lulu watched me warily. It tasted like bad decisions and gasoline, but tonight was about forgetting. The sooner the better.

A few minutes later, Lulu went out to dance with a British guy she’d been making eyes at. I sat glumly at the bar, fiddling with my diamond tennis bracelet, rubbing it like rosary beads. I needed to forget Hartford, and according to Lulu, that meant hooking up with someone.

Was she right?

Fate answered in the form of a beautiful man—and by beautiful I mean drop-dead sexy with a backside so delectable and muscular my mouth plopped open.

I snapped my lips shut and adjusted my velvet half-mask—the annoying feathery plumes on the sides kept sticking to my red lipstick—and turned ever so slightly to check him out, not wanting to appear obvious. He slid into the seat next to me, tall and broad with rippling shoulders and a massive frame.

I checked my appearance in a mirror behind the bar, mentally analyzing the odds of a girl like me snagging a hottie like him.

Although no one had ever called me beautiful, I did have two—okay, maybe three—things going for me in the looks department. My shiny, golden-brown hair that hung down in waves to my shoulders, my fluffy “pillow lips” as Lulu described them, and lastly, I had an itsy bitsy space between my two front teeth which were otherwise white and perfect. Lulu claimed the gap lent me an exotic look, like Madonna or Sookie Stackhouse. Whatever. I was a True Blood fan. I went with it.

He shifted on the stool, leaning closer to me. His cologne swirled in the air, the smell of expensive Scotch and musk mingling together to create a heady, slightly dangerous scent. I paused, goosebumps rising on my bare arms. The spicy whiff triggered a distant memory just out of reach.

As slyly as I could, I studied his profile from top to bottom. Like me he wore a black mask, although his was more masculine, not hiding his chiseled, movie star jawline. His lips were carnal and luscious, the bottom more plump than the top with a slight indentation in the middle. As I watched, his tongue swept out and caressed it, his top teeth biting it as if he were deep in thought. He raked a hand through his dark, longish messy hair, held it suspended above his head for a few seconds and then released it, letting it swish back into its tousled yet perfect place.

I tore my eyes away.

Something about him sent loud warning bells ringing in every atom of my body.

Danger, danger. Don’t touch that.

But my gaze would not be denied as I took in the tight black shirt and sculpted chest that was obviously used to the inside of a gym, right down to an arm that looked like it could snap a board in half—or me.

Nice biceps, Mr. Beautiful.

The pièce de résistance was the vivid blue and orange dragonfly tattoo displayed on his left arm. It was larger than my hand and took up most of his bicep. My eyes traced the contours of the design from the papery wings to the multi-faceted eyes. A bold black color outlined the insect, giving it a masculine feel.

Gorgeous.

True Religion jeans stretched down long legs and ended in a pair of black Converse without socks, giving him a boyish quality that was in direct contrast to the crazy-sexy-bad-boy vibe he had going on.

Him tonight?

Maybe. He was the polar opposite of Hartford who was blond, lean, and tattoo-free.

I nibbled on my fingernail. How do I get him to notice little ol' me?

Just then a redhead with fluffy Farrah Fawcett hair strode up to his stool, bold as brass, wearing a tight, white mini-skirt that barely covered her booty. She brought with her the smell of sweet, cloying perfume, the kind I always got spritzed with at the mall.

She flicked her hair over her shoulder, casually rubbed her finger down his arm and struck up a conversation. Her fake, black lashes—which she’d somehow managed to get outside the eyeholes of her mask—batted. She puffed out her well-developed chest.

He smiled back at her with a wicked grin, his relaxed body language telling me he was confident when it came to women. She whispered in his ear, boobs right in his face, but whatever he said back wasn’t what she wanted to hear because a few ticks later, she crossed her arms, glared at me, and stalked away.

I blinked. What had I done?

Then he turned and pointed his devastating smile at me.

Shit, he’d made eye contact—as much as you could with a claustrophobic mask on.

But wait…

Was he crazy?

Because if he’d turned down her flirtation, I didn’t have a shot.

I didn’t know how to do the fingers-tip-toeing-up-his-arm-thing and sexy hair flicking. I didn’t know a thing about applying fake eyelashes. I didn’t know how to make my breasts sit up that high. I looked away from him and took another shot, feeling anxious and strangely off-kilter.

Mr. Beautiful ordered a drink from the bartender, his British accent smooth as silk as it washed over me. I froze. I almost knew that voice—deep with soft rounded vowels that made you tingle in your lady parts.

What was it about this guy that had me all jacked up and hot for him?

Hello, tequila, my inner voice said. But it was more than that.

Getting brave, I pivoted on my barstool, and found Mr. Beautiful’s eyes on me once more, searching my face. As if he too recognized the pull between us.

It was his voice, the same deep quality, the kind of voice that made you want to hop into his bed and ride him like a cowgirl.

My breath hitched, and I swallowed down the emotion that zipped up my spine whenever I thought of him. He was my one mistake, the time I’d tossed inhibitions and carefully laid plans aside and went with my instincts, only to have them tossed back in my face.

But the man next to me wasn’t Dax. Thank God.

Last spring at the campus-wide end of the year fraternity party with Hartford, I’d seen Dax, and he’d had shorter hair, like always, and zero tattoos. Yeah. No way.

Plus, last I heard, he was in Raleigh where his father lived.

Yet…

Dax was British. He could have family here. Maybe he got a tattoo?

Nah. I mean, what were the odds of us both being at the same club on the same night in a country where neither of us lived?

I tore my eyes off Mr. Beautiful and waved at a bartender for more limes, but somehow my tennis bracelet snagged on the bodice of my dress, leaving my wrist dangling like a wet dishrag in a most inappropriate place.

Skin-tight with a plunging neckline, the dress was mostly a stretchy fabric held together by sequined straps and a zipper on the side. Slated as part of my honeymoon wardrobe, it was a Tory Burch and had cost four hundred dollars, the most I’d ever paid for a fun outfit, and no way did I want to damage it. I might have to return it to rent an apartment at Whitman.

Lulu. I needed Lulu. She was a whiz with wardrobe malfunctions.

I spun around on the barstool and used my free hand to wave at her, but she was slinging herself around dancing, having a great time and completely oblivious. I resorted to flapping both hands at her, one high and one low. Several people waved back with baffled expressions, but Lulu didn’t notice. Dammit.

I groaned and slumped down in my seat, ready to scream. Now what? Go to the bathroom and repair it there? Good plan.

But the club tilted when I stood, the strobe lights making me squint as they flashed in my face. I wobbled in my leopard print heels—that Lulu had insisted I wear—and grabbed the stool to keep my balance. `

I sucked in a breath to gather myself, but I couldn’t think straight. The room spun, and I was suddenly queasy, and why did I slam all that tequila, and oh my god, my wrist is currently attached to my tit like a T. rex arm.

I had to get out of here before someone noticed what an idiot I was.

Trying to be stealth like, I reached across the bar to get my beaded clutch, but because it was my left hand and not my right that I used most of the time, I got off balance and stumbled—and my ankle folded in on itself. I yelped as my shoe catapulted off my foot and vaulted off toward the dance floor, while I fell forward, straight into Mr. Beautiful’s lap.

Two weeks before her wedding, Remi Montague’s fiancé drops her faster than a drunken sorority girl in stilettos. Armed with her best friend and a bottle of tequila, she hops a plane to London to drown her sorrows before fall semester begins at Whitman University.

She didn't plan on attending a masquerade party.

She sure didn’t plan on waking up next to the British bad boy who broke her heart three years ago—the devastatingly handsome and naked Dax Blay. Furthermore, she has no clue how they acquired matching tattoos.

Once back at Whitman together, they endeavor to pretend they never had their night of unbridled passion in London.

But that’s damn hard to do when you live in the same house…

One night. Two damaged hearts. The passion of a lifetime.

*A modern love story inspired by Romeo and Juliet*

**no one dies in the writing of this novel**

New York Times and USA Today best-selling author Ilsa Madden-Mills writes about strong heroines and sexy alpha males that sometimes you just want to slap.

Wednesday, June 22

The bad boy. The fuck up. The thief. That was me. Once a king, Now a wanderer. I’d thrown the best parts of me away, over and over again. I was reckless. Still am. I’d been exiled. Twice. I did my time. I’ve cleaned up. Well, sort of. I got plans. Yeah, good ones. Then I ran into her. A bolt of lightning Startling Unsettling Breathtaking Out of reach. The woman I once scorned years ago is now the woman I can’t live without. I need what I didn’t think I’d ever need again. I want and want and want. Torture. She’s the epicenter of the war I’ve triggered, of the battle in my rusted heart. I may be as reckless as I ever was, but I’m determined as fuck. To hell with it. I want it all.

I adore this series. Seriously it's so good. I've been so excited for Butler's story and it didn't disappoint. Getting to see him make amends and forge a path to redemption was beautiful indeed. Tania was an unexpected surprise as Butler's perfect other half but they worked so well together. Of course we get to see lots more of the previous characters along with club life. I cannot wait for the next installment.

Cat Porter was born and raised in New York City, but also spent a few years in Europe, Texas and the suburbs along the way. As an introverted, only child, she had very big, but very secret dreams for herself. She graduated from Vassar College, was a struggling actress, an art gallery girl, special events planner, freelance writer, and had all sorts of other crazy jobs all hours of the day and night to help make those dreams come true. She has two children's books traditionally published under her maiden name. She now lives in Greece with her husband and three children, and freaks out regularly and still daydreams way too much. She is addicted to old movies, the History Channel, her iPad, her husband's homemade red wine, really dark chocolate, and her Nespresso coffee machine. Writing keeps her somewhat sane, extremely happy, and a productive member of society.

Love makes you soar, makes you fly and sets you free—and then it lets you freefall until you're smashed and bleeding on the ground. Ultimately, love is the worst thing that can happen to a human being.

Im my opinion.

I love two people.

I love them differently.

One is a man.

One is a woman.

And they are brother and sister.

**** A stand alone novel in the best-selling Rhythm Series. ****

“Two minutes to curtain,” called out the stage manager.

We all hustled to take our places for the first number, and Ash walked with Laney as she wheeled herself to a spot where she could watch from the wings.

I felt a shiver of anticipation skitter across my skin, and I stretched my arms over my head before shaking them out, keeping flexible, keeping moving.

“God, I’ll never get enough of this,” whispered Sarah. “I hate it and I love it.”

I knew exactly what she meant. The nerves never really stopped, but the second I stepped on stage, adrenaline and muscle memory took over. My body would respond before my brain felt the fear of dancing in front of a thousand strangers.

I could hear the audience, hear their breaths, feel their excitement, feel the heat rolling forward from the press of bodies.

And then the house lights sank and the theater dropped into darkness, the electricity of expectancy lighting a fuse.

Al, the conductor, tapped his baton, and there was a collective breath as the band prepared to play, fingers hovering above keys and strings, the drummer poised, tension in his arms.

Then the music blasted out in an explosion of sound and light, and I was on stage, alive, powerful, doing what I was born to do.

I became the role, I lived the dance, blood pounding through my veins, my muscles coiled and released as I lunged and leapt, my arms sweeping through the space around me, filling it with spirals of strength and emotion.

Nothing could beat this feeling, this intensity, this desire to drink from the well of life.

And it was magnificent.

For a split second, I caught Ash’s eye, and we shared something that only another dancer can understand—a connection, an emotion so fleeting, I could have dreamed it.

I feel it too, brother.

Two hours later, we stood bathed in sweat under the bright stage lights, smiles on our faces and tears in our eyes, soaking up applause as the crowd rose to their feet, cheers and whistles soaring above the roar. My chest heaved from the exertion, but also from the deep emotion that dancing always brought to me, and I knew that everyone on this stage felt the exact same way.

Sarah stood next to me, tears running down her face, happy tears; tears of achievement and joy; tears of satisfaction and sorrow that it was all over. The end of a performance was a birth—the memories of the audience would live on—and a death, too, as another show ended. So tonight, we were celebrating and grieving.

“I’m going to miss this so fucking much,” she sobbed, staring up at me, then out at the cheering crowd. “God, I’m going to miss you, Luka, you bloody great hunk of sexy Slovenian.”

“I’ll miss you too, buča,” I said sincerely, leaning down to kiss her cheek, tasting the salt of her tears.

All the dancers linked hands, raising our arms in the air as we took our final bow. Ash stepped forward, looking down at the band and applauding them, too. Then he clasped his hands together and pressed them to his heart, before waving to the audience and leaving the stage.

Yveta, Gary and Oliver stepped forward with me and Sarah to take our bows as co-leads, then we too left the stage.

And it was all over.

The applause drained away as the curtain fell for the last time and the house lights came up.

Then it was the slow descent to normalcy as we peeled away the roles we’d played, along with our costumes, wigs and makeup.

♫♪ ♫♪ ♫♪ ♫ ♫ ♪ ♫ ♫ ♪♫♪

Jane is a writer of contemporary romance fiction, known for thoughtful stories, often touching on difficult subjects: disability (DANGEROUS TO KNOW & LOVE, SLAVE TO THE RHYTHM); mental illness (THE EDUCATION OF CAROLINE, SEMPER FI); life after prison (LIFERS); dyslexia (THE TRAVELING MAN, THE TRAVELING WOMAN).

She is also a campaigner for former military personnel to receive the support they need on leaving the services. She wrote the well-received play LATER, AFTER with former veteran Mike Speirs. (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hk1CyB8c0xA )

Tuesday, June 21

Kline and Georgia Brooks are fresh off their wedding and ready to indulge in the honeymoon of a lifetime.

Luxurious and private, their overwater bungalow in the South Pacific is the perfect backdrop for fun, sun, and enough sexiness to necessitate a dip in the clear water to cool down.

But marriage means more, and Kline and Georgia may have to find a different way to handle the heat.

Nowhere near normal in New York…

Thatcher Kelly loves wild women, and Cassie Phillips is about as wild as they come. Put them together and they are a match made in chaos.

Bound by cat-sitting responsibilities, Cass and Thatch have to find a way to right their mistakes—and wade through the dense cloud of sexual tension that seems to suffocate the room whenever they’re together.

1. personal injuries that may occur while reading that are due to laughing too hard. This includes and is not limited to: falling out of bed, hitting your spouse in the face with your kindle, going into labor while laughing, etc.

2. book hangovers

3. feelings of impatience after finishing Tapping Her and while waiting for Banking the Billionaire to release in July

My Review

The perfect little addition to Benny and Kline's story on their honeymoon. Plus more on Cassie and Thatcher and their snark for snark comebacks made me so excited for their book. Then a whole host of hilarity surrounding Walter and I loved this little novella. (Side Note: Walter may be part of my favorite couple EVER)

Happy Release Day to Stylo Fantome! Best Laid Plans and Out of Plans is now available in a box set!! The box set is #OnSale for $0.99 for three days (regular price $4.99). Find out why readers love Lily and Marc. AND get a sneak peek at Kingley's book - titled LAW (Mercenaries #3) book below. We can't WAIT for his book!!! #ComingSoon

LAW. Helicopters. The sound of rotor blades haunted him. Sometimes, they were deafening. He could be standing in a crowded market in Bangkok, and all he would hear is womp womp womp. Kingsley had joined the military at the tender age of seventeen. Some forged paperwork and a couple fake IDs, and he got right in – he knew punishment and discovery was inevitable, but none of it could be as bad as his home life. His step-father took discipline very seriously, and though Kingsley had been over six feet tall since Year Six, he was a string bean. Putting on weight was impossible for him, even though he ate like a horse. His step-father was a local boxing champion, a skill he liked to use often to prove his points. The military could provide an income, schooling, a chance to travel, and most importantly – would teach him how to properly defend himself. How to make sure no one could ever treat him like that again. What he'd never expected, though, was to take to it like a duck to water. He'd signed up for simple infantry, but showed such an aptitude for marksmanship, he was moved up through the ranks to sniper quickly. By the time it was discovered that he'd lied about his age, no one cared. He was too good at his job. And not just shooting. He took to almost everything well. A childhood love for Aikido stayed with him, and he became a high degree black belt. His aptitude for stealth and his above average intellect caused his higher ups to push him towards the intelligence side of the military. He was introduced to the wonders that were SIS – formerly MI6. British intelligence and secret service. He traveled all over the world. Received training – and gave it – at prestigious places like Quantico and Langley, did tours all over Europe. Then the war on terror went to a whole new level. At the time, Kingsley had been part of an elite group of soldiers and special agents that were concentrating on gathering information about Al Qaeda. They were instructed to use “any means necessary” – a work ethic that would prove to stick with him later in life. They were stationed in Afghanistan, operating primarily out of Camp Bastion. It was conjoined with an American military base, the famed Camp Leatherneck. There was a lot of good-natured rivalry going on between the two bases, and while Kingsley enjoyed the rowdy Americans, he kept to himself for the most part. Obviously, there was an airfield at the base, and all manner of airplanes and jets were taking off, all the time. But for some reason, the helicopters stood out the most for him. He enjoyed helicopters, had received training on several models, and liked to fly in them. One day, he returned from a fact finding mission and he'd been walking across the base when a Westland Lynx helicopter had flown low over him. A little unusual. He'd lifted his eyes to watch it, squinting in the setting sun, totally not paying attention to anything going on in front of him. “Watch it!” But the warning came too late. He rammed into someone, completely bowling them over. He came to a stop, looking down at his feet. “Sorry.” She was tiny. Even sprawled out on the ground, he could tell; being somewhat of a giant, he was a good judge of size. He bent down and held out his hand, and though she glared at him, she took it and pulled herself to her feet. He smiled to himself. The pixie in front of him would be lucky if she was even brushing five-foot-two. “Do you always walk around without looking where you're going?” she snapped, dusting herself off. She had an American accent and was wearing a white lab coat over faded green scrubs. “Only when I feel like making new friends,” he teased. She glanced up at him, then went back to cleaning herself off. “Pity it didn't work this time.” “Oh, I don't know. I'm feeling very friendly.” “Watch it, soldier. I outrank you.” “Different countries, love, doesn't count. We're technically peers. Fancy a drink?” “No. Now get out of my way.” He laughed as she pushed past him. She was little, but feisty. He wondered what her gig was, what had brought her to Afghanistan. “The name's Law!” he yelled out at her form as she hurried across the pavement. “Good for you!” “And you are!?” “Someone who doesn't want to be your friend!” He laughed until she'd disappeared from sight.

Crazy woman living in an undisclosed location in Alaska (where the need for a creative mind is a necessity!), I have been writing since ..., forever? Yeah, that sounds about right. I have been told that I remind people of Lucille Ball - I also see shades of Jennifer Saunders, and Denis Leary. So basically, I laugh a lot, I'm clumsy a lot, and I say the F-word A LOT.

I like dogs more than I like most people, and I don't trust anyone who doesn't drink. No, I do not live in an igloo, and no, the sun does not set for six months out of the year, there's your Alaska lesson for the day. I have mermaid hair - both a curse and a blessing - and most of the time I talk so fast, even I can't understand me.

Violet Gallucci and Kazimir Markovic have grown up in the same city, but on opposite sides of the game they call life—Violet, an Italian principessa della mafia, and Kaz, a Russian Bratva heir. Lines have been drawn, and they know not to cross them.

Their paths crossed once, a long time ago, but when they meet again, the territory and rules set out by their families that have kept them separated seem to bleed away.

She’s more than her last name …

He’s more than a Russian …

But secrets from the past—and the people determined to keep them hidden—have other plans for Violet and Kaz.

Rival families.

One city.

Star-crossed lovers.

They should be enemies.

It could mean war.

This is just the beginning …

From authors Bethany-Kris (The Chicago War) and London Miller (Volkov Bratva) comes a thrilling, sexy new series—Seasons of Betrayal. Where the Russians and Italians clash in culture, mafia … and love.

Digging his phone out, Kaz smiled absently. “Let’s hope we never have to find out—Kaz.”

“You know,” Vasily began, sounding rather thoughtful, “when I asked Irina to bear my children, you were not what I hoped for.”

“Someone’s in a mood,” Kaz said in return, already heading for his car, knowing what Vasily would tell him. “How about we skip the ‘I don’t know why you’re calling,’ discussion? Yes, I had a run in with Carmine Gallucci, and considering you’re not yelling, you know that he wasn’t hurt too bad—his pride, maybe. So really, what’s there to discuss?”

Kaz slipped behind the wheel, and as he switched the call over to the Bluetooth radio, his phone buzzed again, this time with a text.

“Are you trying to kill me?” Vasily asked. “Is that what this is about? I don’t understand. I’ve given you everything you could have ever wanted. Money, the best schools, the best cars … and yet you never do the simplest of things that I ask.”

“What was that?” Kaz had only been half paying attention to his father as he unlocked his phone, opening up the message.

“Kazimir!” Vasily snapped, that last little thread he had on his control breaking. “Stay the fuck away from the Galluccis. How many times must I say this?”

The image took a while to load, but when it did, Kaz grinned slowly. There was no face, just the curve of a shoulder, pale skin, and the mottled bite mark he had left some days ago. He was intrigued as to why she sent it.

Whether it was meant as a reminder that he needed to be careful as to where he left his mark, or whether it was an invitation.

He chose to go with the latter.

“I’ll be in there in fifteen,” Kaz said to his father, even as he typed a message to Violet. “And yeah, you have my word. I’ll stay clear of Carmine Gallucci.”

But not Violet. Never Violet.

MUSIC PLAYLIST - WHERE THE SUN HIDES

My Review

I'm officially obsessed with all things Bethany-Kris (and anyone she co-authors with). She writes mafia stories likes she's lived it. Her bad boys with hidden goodness and heroines that break the mold keep me coming back for more. Where the Sun Hides is a Romeo and Juliet style love story set against a mob background where two families have been at odds for generations and yet two lovers find their way to each other against all odds. But their paths are not easy and definitely not lined with roses. As the story unfolds reality comes crashing in leaving devastation and yet a tiny glimmer of hope sprouts in the darkness.

Kaz, born into the Russian Bratva in New York, has been groomed to hate the Italians. But years ago, when he was just 10, his father took him to a meet with the Italian boss where he met 4 year old Violet. Years later, with a truce called, the two groups live separate, mostly peaceful existences together. Until Violet, now 21, goes to a club in an area of town she's not supposed to be in. When she and her friends run into a bit a trouble, Kaz is there to help. At first she doesn't remember meeting Kaz but there's something about him that draws her to him. When the wrong person finds out that Kaz brought Violet home (to an area totally off limits to him) and realizes Violet was in the wrong part of town (totally off limits to her), both sides are decidedly unhappy. Yet Kaz and Violet keep running into each other and soon start a very secret, very off limits relationship. As time moves on reality comes barreling forward and the two lovers are held hostage in its grip.

Kaz and Violet are seemingly opposite in every way. He's the dark to her light. She's the princess to his solider. She's the Italian to his Russian. But together they find something intangible and something worth fighting for. But life in the mob isn't easy and it's even more difficult when one tries to cross lines created generations ago. Yet Kaz and Violet's relationships is so real and hauntingly beautiful amongst all the evil that surrounds them. It doesn't hurt that Kaz is so disarmingly sexy and honest that I fell for him from the very first word from his mouth. His love and devotion to Violet was swoon-worthy and Violet's strength shows in every action she takes.

As the percentage left to read got smaller and smaller, my anxiety increased based on the events surrounding Kaz and Violet, but so did the size of my heart as it expanded every time Kaz spoke in reference to Violet. Then the final straw broke the back of their hidden relationship and the fall out was heartbreaking but even with that ending, I was given the spark I needed to absolutely fall head of heel in love with Kaz even while desperately needing book 2.

Bravo to Bethany-Kris for another supremely well done mafia romance and I'm happy to have found another author to lust after in London Miller. I cannot wait for the next addition to the Seasons of Betrayal series and to find out where Kaz and Violet end up.

Reviewed by Paige

★★☆ 5 "Forbidden" Stars ☆★★

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ABOUT BETHANY-KRIS

Bethany-Kris is a Canadian author, lover of much, and mother to three young sons, one cat, and two dogs. A small town in Eastern Canada where she was born and raised is where she has always called home. With her boys under her feet, snuggling cat, barking dogs, and a hubby calling over his shoulder, she is nearly always writing something … when she can find the time.

To keep up-to-date with new releases from Bethany-Kris, sign up to her New Release Newsletter here: http://eepurl.com/bf9lzD

With a degree in Creative Writing, London Miller has turned pen to paper, creating riveting fictional worlds where the bad guys are sometimes the good guys. Her debut novel, In the Beginning, is the first in the Volkov Bratva Series. She currently resides in Atlanta, Georgia with her husband and two puppies, where she drinks far too much Sprite, and spends her nights writing.

Talia McKinnon said goodbye to love the day she signed the divorce papers and moved across the country looking for a fresh start. With work occupying her days and nights, a relationship is the last thing on her mind, until a run-in with a hot-as-Hades, leather clad biker changes her mind. He’s everything she shouldn’t want but has to have. The problem is, he’s not that easy to catch. Tucker “Country” Abrams believes in two things: brotherhood and women. He takes his job seriously and his women hard, but at the end of the day, the only loyalty he has is to his club. So when a night with a beautiful stranger threatens to change everything, he’s quick to apply the brakes. But when a little detective work reveals that Talia may be much more than a one-night stand, Tucker is tasked with an impossible decision. Will he push her away, or go against every instinct he has and pull her closer?

EXCERPT: Playing With Fire

Shoving aside the empty, Tucker ordered a coffee, black, then sat back and waiting for it to arrive. No sooner than he’d lifted his iPhone from his pocket, preparing to scroll through his Little Black Book of fine ass bunnies who were always DTF, the seat next to him became occupied. Tucker did not need to look up to notice the female sitting there. Nor did he need to look to see that she was watching him. He did, however, need to look up at the sound of that soft as velvet voice. “Shame, a man drinking alone on a Friday night.” Holy fucking hell. Her voice was pure phone sex operator. His dick swelled instantly, and Tucker shifted in his seat, his lips curling into a slow smile as he turned to face her head-on. “Nothin’ wrong with a man drinkin’ alone, sugar. Now, you on the other hand…” He made a show of eying every inch of her svelte frame. She was well-covered in a pair of tight black pants and black halter top laced with fringe, and even though he’d heard that black was supposed to give that slimming effect, he could tell the thickness of her thighs wasn’t just because she was short. The woman worked out. Mmmm. Thick, solid thighs. She was sitting, so he couldn’t tell for sure, but Tucker would bet his left nut that she had an ass to match. She gave him the same once-over, lingering on the bulge along his inner thigh. A bold one, she was. Her tawny eyes rose up and met his, the corner of her mouth and a single eyebrow lifted in amusement. Or perhaps that was appreciation… “Your date stand you up?” she asked, lifting her chin toward the phone he still held in his hand. Tucker looked down at the thing, surprised. Forgot he even had it out. A list of numbers identified by nicknames like Double Mint Twins and Freak Nasty stared back at him, and suddenly, the need for a quickie had lost its appeal. Putting the phone away, Tucker leaned forward, folding his arms on the bar, and stared into the woman’s amazing eyes. “Looks that way. Broke my heart.” He pouted a bit, pure show, and she knew it. “Bitch.” A smirk played on her perfectly formed rose-petal lips. She leaned a little. “Just so you know, I’d never break your heart. Now, other things…” She left that one dangling, sparking Tucker’s intrigue. “Other things…” Lifting his hand, Tucker slid the pad of his thumb across his bottom lip, appraising her once more. “You know, I would not be opposed to see what kind of ‘things’ you have in mind.” She chuckled, a soft, delicate sound, just like everything else about her. “I don’t know if you could handle the kind of things I’m thinking.” Tucker’s eyes narrowed and, deciding to match her boldness, he said, “I can handle whatever you want to throw at me, sugar. I should warn you, though. It’s you who might not be able to handle me…” With a start, he realized he hadn’t caught her name. Reading his expression and extending a delicate, fine-boned hand, she said, “Talia. And I assure you, it’s the other way around.” And wasn’t that exactly what he wanted to hear. Grasping her hand firmly, Tucker held onto it far longer than was necessary. “My friends call me Country, but you…” He rubbed his thumb across the soft skin on the back of her hand, then lifted it to his lips, kissing baby soft knuckles that smelled faintly of apple blossoms. “You can call me Tuck.” She grinned, not understanding the significance of him allowing her to call him by his real name. No woman had ever known him as anything but Country, but her…There was something about this one that made him want to lose the filter. Get a little closer. “Nice to meet you, Tuck.” “Exactly my thoughts, Talia.” Her eyes sparkled at his seductive purr, and Tucker did a mental fist pump. Hook. Line. Sinker.

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Synopsis: Gabby Morgan isn’t looking for love. Not even a little romance. Following a rocky past that she’d just as soon forget, she’s determined to focus on the future. One that most certainly doesn’t involve the tough-as-nails, short-on-words, hot-as-hell biker…or his kid. Blake Mahone may not be done with women, but he’s finished with relationships. Then Gabby Morgan enters the picture. She’s flawless, refined, and as his kid’s teacher, way out of his league. She acts like she hates him, but her eyes tell a different story. Before he knows it, Blake finds himself hot for teacher, and he’s more than ready to learn all her secrets. Now all he has to do is convince her to give him a shot…without getting them both killed in the process.

ABOUT J.C. VALENTINE

J.C. Valentine is the USA Today and International bestselling author of the Night Calls and Wayward Fighters Series and the Forbidden Series. Her vivid imagination and love of words and romance had her penning her own romance stories from an early age, which, despite being poorly edited and written longhand, she forced friends and family members to read. No, she isn’t sorry. J.C. earned her own happily ever after when she married her high school sweetheart. Living in the Northwest, they have three amazing children and far too many pets and spend much of their free time together enjoying movies or the outdoors. Among the many hats she wears, J.C. is an entrepreneur. Having graduated with honors, she holds a Bachelor’s in English and when she isn’t writing, you can find her editing for fellow authors. Sign up for J.C.’s newsletter and never miss a thing! http://bit.ly/1KxXWWB